by Byron Craft
SHOGGOTH 2: Rise of the Elders
Who creates and controls the shoggoths? For Professor Thomas Ironwood and his heavily armed team, the answer is crucial. The fate of the free world hangs in the balance.
The solution? Return to the tunnels beneath the Mojave Desert, locate a gigantic subterranean vault and unlock the secrets it contains. Deadly primal secrets that lie in wait from a time before human life began!
Byron Craft once again takes us below the earth in this SHOGGOTH sequel enveloping us with tentacles, claws, and mucus glop. A talented fusion of Lovecraftian sci-fi, mystery, fantasy, and horror with a 21st-century twist.
***
“Byron Craft goes places HPL never dared.”
F. PAUL WILSON
Author of THE KEEP, REPAIRMAN JACK SERIES,
THE GOD GENE, and much more.
www.repairmanjack.com
“Bryon Craft again takes the most beloved elements of the Lovecraft canon and makes them his own. The fact that he does this while keeping everything readers love about Lovecraft’s creations in the first place is astounding.”
SEAN HOADE
Author of 18 books and pulp writer extraordinaire.
“Bryon Craft writes cinematic, action-packed science fiction horror with panache: smart plotting, engaging characters and attention to detail put him a cut above the field. If you like your aliens slavering and carnivorous, your heroes rugged and your action explosive, you’re going to love his work.”
DAVID HAMBLING
Author of the Harry Stubbs series. www.facebook.com/ShadowsFromNorwood
“Byron Craft is a master of combining Pulp Adventure with Lovecraftian horrors. When Byron puts pen to paper, he builds a perfect adventure around a core of sheer terror that makes for an excellent read.”
MATTHEW DAVENPORT
www.davenportwrites.com
“Byron Craft returns to the Lovecraftian lore of Cthulhu in Shoggoth 2 – Rise of the Elders. Craft’s inimitable ability to pay homage to yet make the world of Lovecraft his own is proof positive of his abilities as a writer.”
PAUL ATREIDES
www.paul-atreides.com
SHOGGOTH 2: RISE OF THE ELDERS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018; Byron Craft
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.
www.ByronCraftBooks.com
Cover art by Pahapasi, https://pahapasi.deviantart.com
ISBN-13: 978-1722661984
ISBN-10: 1722661984
The Works of Byron Craft
The Mythos Project:
The Cry of Cthulhu: Formerly: The Alchemist's Notebook
Shoggoth
Shoggoth 2; Rise of the Elders
The Arkham Detective Series:
Cthulhu's Minions
The Innsmouth Look
The Devil Came to Arkham
The Dunwich Dungeon
The Arkham Detective Collection
DEDICATION
In memory of H.P. Lovecraft, plus all my characters that keep the weird alive; and to Marcia Craft who motivates me.
SHOGGOTH 2:
Rise of the Elders
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 - Stasis -
Chapter 2 - Blood in a Bottle -
Chapter 3 - Ghost Town Dreams -
Chapter 4 - Pocket Companion, Act I -
Chapter 5 - Homunculus -
Chapter 6 - Pemba -
Chapter 7 - Ironwood -
Chapter 8 - The Encounter -
Chapter 9 - The Houseguest -
Chapter 10 - Nightmares -
Chapter 11 - Pocket Companion, Act Two -
Chapter 12 - Darwin -
Chapter 13 - Groundwork -
Chapter 14 - Return to the Tunnels -
Chapter 15 - The Vault -
Chapter 16 - Escape -
Chapter 17 - Pocket Companion, Act III -
Chapter 18 - Rise of the Elders -
Chapter 19 - HPL Memorandum -
Chapter 20 - The Plan -
Chapter 21 - Aftermath -
Chapter 22 - Deep State -
Chapter 23 - Desert Diamonds -
Chapter 24 - Joy Ride -
Chapter 1
- Stasis -
The mist partially obscured the tentacles, tendrils, and lobster-like claws. The bulk of Trihl's girth barely had enough room to turn around in the vertical cylinder.
All five-fifths of a pentad had run out. The collision happened on the far side of the planet. Even so, very little was left alive, anywhere.
The shoggoth solar collecting stalks, that once soared upwards, wilted and atrophied under the dark smoke-filled sky and the tunnel walls, floors, and ceilings, once flourishing, became lifeless.
Below, the shoggoth slaves were rampant, devouring everything that was left living to placate their vanished solar energy feed; a revolution against their masters motivated by the ravages of hunger.
Suicide would be the solution for most rational beings, but the upper and lower lobes of Trihl's big brains were unable to comprehend death. Only finite beings laid down and never got up again.
All had been secured. Everything would be there when Trihl needed it. The stasis chamber locked. There was a hiss. It was time to sleep.
Chapter 2
- Blood in a Bottle -
The tall man with a scar waited. Darkness would fall soon. The upper crest of the sun sunk below the horizon. In a little while, the hunt would begin. He feigned being the prey so that the pursuer would become his.
The tall man with a scar leaned back in the chaise lounge and pretended to sleep. His eyes appeared closed, but his lids were not tightly shut. The thin slits presented a limited field of vision as if peering through a narrow horizontal crack. The roofs of the crowded subdivision reflected the soft orange radiance of the setting sun and surrounded his lanai. Virtually all the houses in the subdivision had a lanai contained within a pool cage. If he had risen from his faux slumber and looked to the south, to the east and then the west all that would be visible would be clay tile shingles, stamped concrete patios, and screened enclosures. Typical homeowners’ association protocol in Southwest Florida.
Movement atop one of the houses cast an advancing shadow. It scuttled across the roof tiles. It was skinny, bone scrawny and filthy. Although vampires were bipeds, this one scurried on all fours springing from one rooftop to the next, getting closer. The tall man with a scar did not move.
Vampires were lowly creatures. The conventional notion of a vampire, dressed in black with silk cape flowing was ill-conceived, nor did they resemble anything in the TV show Twilight. They were dirty beasts that fed off anything that had blood pumping through its veins. This one had a penchant for school children, little girls.
It was a clear and thorough trail the tall man with a scar left for the foul bloodsucker. Two-thirds of the houses were empty. Summer had arrived, off-season for the snowbird neighborhood. He had made it well known at the convenience store around the corner, all the big box stores in town and especially the local blood bank that he was a single dad with three little girls in his keeping, two of which were AB-negative; a rare blood type that is highly desirable by vampires for its flavorful platelets. The trail of bloody breadcrumbs was complete. If applicable, he would have posted the phony info all over
social media except vampires lacked the intelligence to operate a computer let alone navigate the internet. The trap set, the bait was irresistible, and he, of course, who laid in wait, had no family.
A compact mini fridge next to the chaise made a satisfactory end table. A glass ashtray on its porcelain surface stored the smoldering remains of a cigar. A light breeze wafted a blue-white smoke curl across the ersatz recumbent sleeper. The entry to the enclosure opened. The screen door closer hydraulic piston arm slowly drew the door shut behind the parasite. There was a “click,” the latch fastened to the aluminum jamb.
The tall man with a scar swung his legs over the side of the lounge chair and sat up. “Welcome, glad you could make it,” he announced cheerily. The creature that habitually preys upon others, the destroyer of children, the devourer of souls, took a step backward, hunger ravaged its boney features. Heavily soiled clothes hung off its skeletal frame in tatters. There was a stench of animal feces. It was no Bela Lugosi, thought tall man. “Don’t be afraid, mi casa es su casa, how about a game of Parcheesi?”
“Hungry,” the predator growled, “need food.”
“Will a bologna sandwich do?”
“No like samitch!”
“Ah, a fella with a limited vocabulary, what do you want then?”
“Muss drink little girlz.”
“Oh, that, well there ain’t none. I lied.”
The vampire’s brooding features filled with rage. It screamed at the tall man with a scar, “No girlz!” He moved to where tall man sat on the chaise lounge. “Then I drink man!”
“Be my guest,” he countered ripping open his shirt. Buttons scattered and clacked across the stamped concrete patio. He bared his chest; a crucifix hung on a gold chain around his neck. “Come on, take a sip,” he challenged.
The creature of the night turned and fled to the screen door. The bloodsucking parasite stopped dead in its tracks. Another crucifix hung on the inside of the door. Given time, figured the tall man with a scar, it would claw its way through the screen material on the other side of the pool cage, now was the moment to make his move. “Don’t run off, stay and chat for a while.”
“Know blood pumpers like you. Say, ‘stay vampire,’ so can kill. But I always come back. Steak in heart, cut off head, but I get made right by disciples. I always come back.”
The prey turned predator, knew well that the creature’s claim was true. Vampires were hard to kill, for good. Even if he decapitated the thing, stuffed garlic in its mouth and made sure that the head was kept separate from the body that was just the beginning of the futile ordeal. Was he being watched? Damn fiends like this one had its sick earthly followers, laughingly referring to themselves as the DoD, Disciples of Dracula. Would they dig their dark lord up when he was through and reanimate it? Then there was the disposal of the corpse. Making sure that there were no witnesses to a burial or funeral pyre. If observed, would forensics pin a murder rap on him? All such circumstances had to be considered. “You’ve got me all wrong chum. I want to be a follower. Be a member of your DoD. Just think about it, I can be your guy on the inside. Can you imagine a better place to hide than right here in little old suburban Fort Myers? It will be easy pickings for you, besides I’ve got Netflix.”
“You want be disciple?”
“You said it, pal.”
“Then why crosses?”
“To protect me and keep you here long enough so we can parley.”
The simple countenance of the six-foot-tall leech appeared to turn over the tall man’s offer. Its facial skin tone resembling bone marrow darkened and flexed with varying expressions. “Idea good.”
“Great!” answered the tall man with a scar. “Let’s drink on it. Look in the fridge. I’ve got something for a hungry fella like you.”
The dark lord cautiously opened the door in the mini refrigerator. Inside was a clear glass bottle that one time was a fifth of rum but now held a red liquid. While scrutinizing its new compatriot, the vampire slowly unscrewed the cap and guardedly sniffed the contents of the bottle. “Blood,” it smiled and took a sip, smiling again it whispered, “good.”
“Nothing but the best. It’s Type AB-negative, bon appétit. I’ll have a Bud Light.”
The unearthly creature tilted the bottle upward and chugged the contents. “Not thick,” it added following a belch.
“Yeah, I watered it down a bit, with holy water.”
The empty bottle shattered, spewing glass fragments across the concrete. The man-creature staggered toward the center of the lanai. “Hey, Mister Vampire!” hollered tall man, “don’t fall into the swimming pool.”
As if taking heed of the shouted order the vampire fell to its knees a short distance from the kidney-shaped pool. A growl, trailed by a roar, emanated from its stomach.
“Sounds like you need a bicarb pal,” taunted the ex-compatriot.
A slaughterhouse pig scream emanated from the vampire as the lower part of its abdomen exploded. Intestines, liver, and bile poured out, bubbled and puddled on the masonry. Next, the head collapsed like a rotten melon and fell off bursting into a thousand melting fragments. Everything was dissolving, flesh, hair, muscles, even bone. A pool of fetid sludge welled up into a fat blob.
The tall man with a scar removed a cast iron drain plate from the floor of the enclosed patio, walked over to the opposite end of the lanai and proceeded to drag a power washer toward the mess. After hooking it to a garden hose, he turned on the water, plugged it into an electric wall outlet and threw the switch. The wand of the power washer sprayed water with one-hundred-fifty pounds of force when triggered. Deftly applying the water pressure against the goop, the tall man with a scar washed the vampire slush down the drain. The undead was truly dead, he grimaced. I’d like to see the DoD put him back together now. There was a fireplace in the living room. He'd burn the rags it wore in it. After that, it was time to collect his fee from the homeowners’ association.
Chapter 3
- Ghost Town Dreams -
Mavis Blister woke up screaming. Sitting against the headboard, she frantically cast an eye over every article in her dimly lit bedroom. The extra-terrestrials were gone, thank God. Big ass upside down ice cream cones with too many eyes and too many arms. Mavis took a deep breath attempting to reduce the shaking in her arms, legs, and the pit of her stomach. She changed the setting in the battery-powered lantern on her bedtable from “Lo” to “Brite.” Electrical outlets in the bedroom of her little house on wheels hadn’t worked in donkey years. Mavis got out of bed, wrapped her pajama-clad body in a worn housecoat, clutched the lamp in both hands, and headed for the kitchen; the house trailer floor creaked under her stocking feet. Grabbing a glass off a shelf, she filled it halfway from the kitchen tap; it was a slow dribble. The water pressure seemed exceptionally low, she reckoned. A black cat landed softly on the countertop while Mavis consumed the contents of the glass.
“Hiya, Sam,” she hailed, affectionately scratching his head. The charcoal Bombay purred. Mavis mistook Sam’s warm greeting for adoration. If truth be told, in cat language, he was searching for a handout. Next, a gray tabby settled on the Formica, also on a hunger prowl. “Petey,” she exclaimed. “Are you and Sam tryin’ to tell me not to be a scaredy-cat? I love you, boys. Mama’s havin’ them bad dreams again.”
They weren’t just bad dreams, they were horrible nightmares, and Mavis Blister had been plagued by them, almost every night, for months; unless she had several shots of Canadian Club in the evening, which happened more often these days. She enjoyed diet raspberry Snapple as a mixer for her whiskey. There was a certain amount of sophistication in drinking tea, she decided long ago. “Tea time,” is what she called it when visiting with her gal pals in Darwin.
There were fewer ladies in town to socialize with nowadays. Mavis and her husband, Kevin, retired to Darwin in 1984. “There were more people livin’ here then,” she said to no one. By the dawn of the new millennium, there were only forty-five residents in the living ghost
town. The two cats watched her ease her tired body on to a bentwood rocker. Sam and Petey mewed, still hoping for an early meal. Mavis ignored them; it was too dark out to be breakfast time.
An orange tabby jumped up and curled across her knees. “Rusty,” she proclaimed, “my lap cat. How’s my little girl? Aren’t the boys payin’ any attention to you?” Mavis rocked back in the chair and talked to the upper limit of the trailer. A leak in the roof, the previous year, left a brown stain on the beaverboard ceiling. It was a small blotch, on the pressed cardboard, where tiny rivulets of water had radiated outward leaving the mark of an octopus, she thought. “My man Kevin was in the construction business back before we moved here kitties,” she shouted upward, trying to keep her mind off the dream. “He could dig a ditch better and faster than any man.” She laughed, “He’d get mad when some of the younger fellers in his crew would call him Mister Blister.” The octopus on the ceiling looked particularly nasty this evening, she noted. For a moment Mavis thought she detected movement in the discoloration. “Poor Kevin’s old heart gave out two years come this September,” she mourned tightly closing her eyes. “Had help from some folks in town to bury him out in the hills, twas Kevin’s wish to be laid out there when the time come.”
Widow Blister’s depression over the loss of her husband caused her dreams to become stark and well-defined. “Creepy things,” she would tell the few neighbor ladies in town when in her cups. “Big as a house with three eyes the size of baseballs.” The small number of women in Darwin seldom listened. Not that they thought Mavis was “off her rocker,” rather they too had experienced the horrors of bedtime visions. Mavis was oblivious to their shared hallucinations though. Most were uncomfortable relating the experience of their bad dreams. Only one confided in her, but when sober, the next day, Mavis had forgotten all about their conversation.
